


Lost in Translation

by Launchycat



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:05:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Launchycat/pseuds/Launchycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale puts off sending a report and there are unexpected consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost in Translation

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came to be after I came across a particular bit of lore and ran with it. Saying any more before the fic itself will ruin it, though, so more notes at the end!

A small scroll with an ornate seal lay in the middle of the table. Moments before, it had descended from above in a shaft of golden light. Moments before that, an angel and a demon had been enjoying a rather nice bottle of wine in the back room of the former's bookshop. Presently, they were both staring at the parchment with mild surprise.

"Orders from Upstairs?", Crowley broke the silence, prompting the other to reach for the piece of paper.

"I expect so. Something to do with that report I misplaced, perhaps?"

" _Misplaced_... right. Nothing to do with those new books you got in."

"It was a rare collection I'd been expecting for weeks!", Aziraphale countered defensively, "They needed cataloguing and repairs, and I had to clear up shelf space*. So I may have indulged in a spot of reading afterwards, too. A small break between duties is hardly unreasonable, is it?"

" _Small_ break?" Crowley huffed, "Angel, you were in that room for over a fortnight. I threatened to burn your wardrobe and replace your classical music vinyls with the Top 100 Pop Chart and all I got out of you was "That's nice, dear"**".

"All right, I may have gotten a bit carried away", the angel admitted, unrolling the now slightly crumpled up scroll in his hand. "But it was hardly a noteworthy delay in the grand scheme of things, and the report is nearly ready to - oh my."

There were a few seconds of silence as his eyes raced across the paper.

"Come on, out with it", Crowley finally gave in. "It's only one report, how bad can it be? If it's overtime they want, I'm sure we could find a few convenient wiles that need thwarting nearby."

"I'm afraid it's nothing like that, dear, though I appreciate the offer", came a nervous reply, his eyes still on the parchment. "It seems my, er... absence was noted. They're sending an archangel to check up on me. Immediately."

 

*He _could_ have just miracled the extra space into existence, but that just wasn't the same.

**Even Crowley (or perhaps _especially_ Crowley) knew better than to so much as consider threatening the books***. As bad as lack of company may have been, being bored to death was still a great deal better than actually _being_ dead.

***Mentions of Alexandria still sent shivers down his spine, and he hadn't even been (directly) responsible.

 -------------

Crowley was frozen on the spot. Aziraphale was still talking, but words turned into background noise as frantic thoughts rushed through the demon's mind.

Archangels.

The first of all angels, highest of the Seraphim, unmatched in speed, strength, raw power and military prowess. Six wings, gleaming armour, flaming swords, auras glistening with divine presence.

Nightmare on wings for any but the highest ranking servants of Hell.

He'd heard stories of Michael, General of the Heavenly Host, slicing through hordes of demons like a knife through butter; and Gabriel, Messenger of God, not as often seen on the battlefield, but nonetheless lightning fast, and every bit as deadly as his brother.

And then there was Uriel, Flame of God, Archangel of Repentance and Divine Presence. The one time Crowley had, by pure chance, been in the same city as him, the demon had ended the day violently discorporated. He considered himself lucky. 

But really, right now, _which_ particular Archangel was involved did not matter as far as Crowley was concerned*. _One_ of them was coming, the only difference the specifics would have made was the precise _manner_ of his undoubtedly painful demise.

_"My dear? My dear? Are you all right?"_

The voice broke his train of thought and he found himself back in the real world, remembering how to move again after what could have been moments, but could just as well have been hours. His head turned to face the angel as he considered all available exits**. The shop bell chimed, and a warm glow shined on the other side of the half-closed back room door. 

*Aziraphale insisted that Raphael was an absolute dear, and that they would get along stellarly if Crowley only gave him a chance. Crowley had so far remained unconvinced.

**Which added up to an almighty one. ***

***Two if you included the phone line.

  -------------

Barely thinking, Crowley jumped to his feet, tipping the table over in his rush to get out of the chair and sending both wine bottle and glasses flying to the floor. Aziraphale ducked backwards and stumbled onto the floor, confused and surprised. Glass shattered, red wine covered their clothes, and a handful of shards raced towards and past him, leaving a small gash on his cheek.

Meanwhile, his still panicking friend looked around for anything that could be used as a weapon, more out of desperation and force of habit than out of hope that it would do him any good. For lack of anything better, he settled on the remains of the wine bottle.

The light shone brighter, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of unfolding wings and footsteps rushing towards the door. Crowley briefly considered using his improvised weapon on himself. Admittedly, "discorporation by self-inflicted broken bottleneck wound" was not the most dignified way to go (Hastur would never let him live it down), but it sure as heaven beat ceasing to exist altogether. That is, if not for the fact that the footsteps were so close that he would be smitten ( _or was it smote?_ ) before he even started bleeding. He gave the (still confused) angel a "nice knowing you" look (no use saying anything and getting him in trouble, too), stretched his wings out and did his best to look ready for a fight. If he was going to go, he might as well go down with some dignity.

The door swung open.

  -------------

In the doorway, holding what was either a dagger or a very small sword, stood a short, balding, middle-aged man with greying brown hair, wearing what appeared to be late-Victorian clothing. He would have been unrecognisable as an angelic being if not for the glowing aura surrounding him and the two dusty brown wings sprouting from his back (and even then, just barely). He made Aziraphale seem downright imposing by comparison.

Crowley and the newly-arrived angel stood there in surprised silence for a few tense seconds. The angel looked at Crowley, black wings stretched out and looking ready to strike, then at Aziraphale, on the floor amongst shattered glass, face grazed and clothes covered in red stains. Crowley simply stared at the newcomer in shock. 

Then, finally, something clicked. archangel. He relaxed, throwing the bottleneck to the side, then straightened up and put on a smug, serpentine smile.

"Demon filth!", came a high-pitched cry from his would-be opponent as he lunged forward, dagger flailing wildly.

Crowley moved out of the way with ease and grabbed hold of the angel's wrist, twisting it behind his back and pulling the knife away from him. He turned to give Aziraphale a conspiratorial wink*, then shoved him into the nearest wall and leaned close to his ear.

"I'll deal with you later", he whispered in the most menacing voice he could muster. Then, using the blunt end of the dagger, he struck the side of his head and let him slump to the floor, unconscious. He threw the weapon to the side, dusted his clothes off, miracling the wine stains away, turned to face Aziraphale, and, for the first time since that blessed scroll had arrived, remembered to breathe. 

"That...", the angel finally regained his voice, "That was incredibly quick thinking, my dear. I mean, the dear is an archangel, he's practically harmless, but if he had walked in on us having drinks together like that, I would have been in so much trouble with everyone Upstairs. You know how they are. I really can't thank you enough."

"Angel..."

"...Very clever idea, staging a fight like that. You looked so convincing, too - I could've sworn you were _actually_ scared to death..."

" _Angel._ "

"You... You thought I meant Archangel, didn't you?", Aziraphale finally stopped, expression changing from relief to guilt.

"Ah yes, I can see it now, the difference should have been _obvious_ ", Crowley snarked, no real bitterness in his voice. After a heart-stopping** scare like that, berating the angel could wait.

"I'm _so_ sorry, my dear", said angel continued undeterred, "It's hard to get rid of old habits, you know? Our rank names just weren't made for languages that don't account for simple things like spoken word capitals."

Crowley poured another quick glass of wine for the road and started making his way towards the door. He hadn't intended to leave for another few hours, but any excuses Aziraphale came up with weren't likely to hold up to scrutiny if a demon was still in the room sipping wine when their unexpected guest woke up.

"Angel, I swear to Manchester, one of these days, your side's ineptitude for naming things is going to be the end of me."

 

*Which, in Crowley's mind, translated to "Don't worry, I'm not going to get you into more trouble by discorporating him. I'm just going to make it look convincing". Aziraphale, however, was still processing the recent turn of events and mood swings and, as such, didn't stop to contemplate the subtleties of winks for the time being.

**Quite literally (not that it seemed to bother him).

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this, you're probably wondering what the hell/heaven/something just happened. Welcome to angelic hierarchies!
> 
> As it turns out, at least some versions of Christian lore make a distinction between Archangels (highest of all angels) and archangels (second-lowest rank of angels, superior only to the Choir referred to simply as angels; for reference, Principalities are a step above that). 
> 
> Heaven isn't winning the Naming Scheme of the Year (/Century/Millennium/Creation) Award any time soon.
> 
> Note #2: A shout-out goes to [Moczo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JAMoczo/pseuds/JAMoczo) of [Manchester Lost](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/1748305), whose lovely Archangels were what I had at the forefront of my mind when I was describing them here. If you fancy a good GO sequel fic, head on over and check it out.


End file.
